


First Landing

by thetijuana



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 17:05:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4357373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetijuana/pseuds/thetijuana





	1. Summer, 206 PE

Dawn did not break quietly on the shores of Jhaziraht, her banners and flags flicking with the touches of the east wind. In the rapidly lightening skies – still painted with violent streaks of carmine and gold, above which lingered the vestiges of night’s dark curtain – seagulls dove and tumbled, crying into the expanse of their aerial domain. Meanwhile, the port below was stirring with life, as the earliest fishing boats rolled softly home. It would be many hours until the gwel sailors would stumble home. The rest of the city slept soundly, waiting for the sun to breach the horizon.

Brawny hands guided weathered bodies through rigging and sail; tying, pulling, hoisting, lifting barrel, rope and nets bursting with the dappled silver mass of fish. Sweat beaded on the brow of a common laborer by the name of Karim un’arhNazari, and trickled down his temple in a slow crawl. Frowning against the uncomfortable sensation, he wiped the sweat away with his hand, then hissed at the sting when the salt touched a fresh scratch. Shaking his hand at the prickle of pain, he brought the flat of his palm to his mouth and sucked at the spots of blood. It was not a dangerous wound by any means, but the small slash was dark enough to contrast sharply with the rich teal of his skin – not that it would be his first scar.

A throaty chuckle alerted him to the presence of another worker, whose sounds of amusement turned into a chiding _tsk tsk_. “Be careful, _alifah_ , or your face will stick that way,” his fellow laborer teased. He was not homely, though still too wind-chapped and sunburnt to fit even the most amenable beauty standards, and his yellow eyes had the crinkle characteristic of those whose humor flirted with offensiveness. Saraas was his adult name, though Karim did not have a family name or tribe to match. “Best mind the crinkle in your brow, or your pretty partner would be heartbroken,” he continued, tossing a coil of rope over his shoulder.

The virulent crawl of dockworker gossip never failed to catch him off guard, though after three months he should have expected news of his match wouldn’t stay with one person. Karim shook his head and sighed, “I am capable of taking care of my face, ala.”

“Is your mate drem or nak?”

He was surprised that fact hadn’t been passed as well. “Nak,” he replied, with a tone of obviousness. “It _is_ a match for _lhu’saavasanri_ , after all. Children are expected.”

Saraas rolled his eyes, setting Karim’s temper into sparks, “Tribal gwel, with all your rites and relations. Children are always expected, why make such a distinction?"

 _We make the distinction because it is our tradition, the ways of our ancestors stretching back to days when this port was nothing more than stones and sand. Long before your prodigal forebearers decided the old ways were beneath them_ , he seethed, but kept his mouth shut and his lips pinched. Instead, though he knew his answer would not bring satisfaction to either of them, he managed to reply, "Because it is important, that's why."

His tone had been too cold, if Saraas' resulting silence told him anything. For a few blessed seconds, the only sounds were the water lapping against the sides of the boat and the muted shouts from the sailors on shore. Without warning, a strong hand latched onto his shoulder, shaking in time with the laughter of its owner. Karim tensed at the sudden touch, willing his body to relax. "Some humour is what you need," Saraas said, still shaking gently. "You tribals are too sensitive, too serious of spirit. You have worked with us for several months, too long to be so cold to our friendship."

Declining to answer, Karim looked to the sky. The shipmaster was extinguishing the last of the lanterns, letting morning's orange flow illuminate the still-damp deck of his ship. With a single gesture, he pinched the final flame and brought his fingers to his lips, wetting them and letting his gaze wander, found Karim watching him and frowned. Embarrassed to be caught dawdling, Karim lunged for the closest piece of cargo - a sack of salt - and hoisted it over one shoulder, scrambling to bring it to shore. For the time being, he had lost Saraas.

In the quiet of his own thoughts, Karim could admit that he _was_ unusually antisocial - a terrible flaw for any gwel to have, particularly one in the waxing years of adulthood, tribal or not. Saraas was not the first to voice displeasure at his behaviour, though he was certainly the most honest. He set the sack alongside its kin, pausing again to wipe his brow clean. Certainly, if Saraas and the other workers had been tribal gwel, friendship would be an easier effort.

He turned in time with a cry from above, high in the rigging of another boat. On the horizon, the silhouette of a large ship had drifted close enough that her shape could be discerned against the sun - and she was something foreign and sleek. To their eyes, her sails were large and crimson, ribbed like the fins of a fish. Her body, truthfully all parts of her made of wood, painted the same blackish shade - or, perhaps more likely, the wood itself was that dark colour. Less beautiful and more concerning was her train, a billowing cloud of black smoke.

"Is it aflame?" someone asked, and Karim followed the voice.

"No," came a reply. "I see no signs of flame beyond the smoke. Perhaps it is the sign of some sort of fuel, or a cooking spit in the lower decks?"

"What hands built this ship?"

"No crafter I could name, not one of Hom. No gwel made those sails, see? Why would anyone waste dyes on sailcloth?"

"Did you see? Those panels there, what is that strange shape?"

Karim followed the gesture, squinted eyes scanning the stern. There, in the deck, he could see dark shapes stirring, a form not unlike a gwel - a human, perhaps?

It was his final thought, before the world around him exploded in fire and stone.


	2. Spring, 207 PE

Morning arrived quietly in the halls of the Qarat Aasim, unfettered by coastal worries of ambush and a blackpowder wake-up. Surely, those gwel who remained in the shattered heart of Jhaziraht, or the coastal settlements such as Abid or Karaas slept with their ears up and their eyes half-open. Perhaps they woke with their possessions still clutched tightly, or in the embrace of a loved one - thankful to be alive to feel that person's warmth. No, that was no life to live. Months later, the sea-facing districts of Jhaziraht remained shattered in a twisted pile of stone, and even what little remained untouched had devolved into a ghost town. A life of fear was no life to live. Better to be cut off from the sea, no matter the pain of separation, than dead and sentimental.

She stirred when the light had filled the room, buried in the hot embrace of a lover, blinking away the darkness of sleep. Shifting, she winced as the blood rushed back into her arm and sat up, casting off a bed-mate's tossed leg and turned back, quietly watching her partners sleep, in awe of the gentle sounds of in- and out-breath and the rise and fall of their dappled chests, naked in the glow of morning. Both were drems, though her affection was by no means limited to that sex. Hafiz was the elder, in possession of a beauty more common in naks and a slender, willowy build. Hafiz was no warrior. In sleep, his long, wavy hair was a far cry from its usual level of immaculate and his lips - whose softness she was intimately familiar with - were barely parted as he mumbled nonsense, in a level just above silent. 

She ran a thumb over his cheekbone, feeling a rush of delight as his lashes fluttered. Even with the cautious disturbance, he slept soundly.

At her right, she felt the bed dip as Malik awoke and flipped onto his belly, groaning softly with the effort of movement. He did not greet her right away, but took her free hand and brushed his lips against her knuckles. She freed the hand, cupping his jaw and thumbing his cheek.

"Sleep well?" he rumbled, eyes half-lidded under her touch and the effects of rest.

"Yes, always when you are here," she purred. "I would not sleep for want of your warmth and his."

Malik turned in her hand, allowing her to scratch at the skin behind his ears. She left that spot to trace the silvery remnants of scars old and new, which decorated the greater portions of his face and chest - the visible evidence of his role as a warrior and guardian in service to her House, a former slave by the hand of fate. Though offered the opportunity to leave and begin anew, Malik had chosen to remain and serve of his own free will. The _shalath_ would kill him on sight, he had admitted, when she had privately questioned his motivation. _And there are other things which keep me here_. He was young and strong, even several years later, and she had not been surprised when her feelings began to trespass on love. Mindful of her power, she had denied her desires - until the first time he saved her life.

"Lhanya," he murmured, her name slipping from his mouth like a blessing.

"Yes, _mi alheb_?"

"We should get out of bed, or we'll never leave," he suggested, and chuckled when she yawned. "See?"

"Hafiz?" she whispered, kissing the other drem's brow. She called him again when he hardly stirred, "Wake up, _mi yhoma_. The sun is up, and we should follow."

"Judging by that light, I would say hardly," he replied, his eyes fluttering open. "Is this the first morning the children haven't woken us first?"

Lhanya was already off the bed, shivering naked and rubbing her arms for heat.


End file.
